Last of Dams
by Cytrus
Summary: And in a final effort not to be forgotten, I record these words. The greatest journey of my life. My rise and my fall...
1. Thought

_AN: I come back after a longer absence. What you have here is a story based so loosely on DKC I could easily say it is not based on it at all and put it in as original fiction. But as DKC was the source of inspiration, and you will recognize the main focus of the story and the main character (about whom, like everybody in DKC, we know little enough to have each our own version of his character), this goes into the DKC section._  
_I wish you all a good read of this part, and the ones that will be realeased shortly after. _

Part 1: Thought

Have any of you ever felt like you didn't belong to the society you were supposed to exist in? Have you ever felt like a weirdo? A person from outer space?

Because I did.

It's not a surprise though, considering that most of my neighbours were, though it pains me to say so, brainless. The races walking on earths above the waters had been changing drastically for many years, forced to keep together and create true and working societies because of unstable weather conditions and natural catastrophes. Unity had not only given them the chance to survive, but it had also made them more civilized and wise with every generation. Their cultures have been blooming ever since.

The life underwater, on the contrary, hadn't changed for centuries, or so it appeared. The only possible relationship between two species was still the predator-prey one. Position in the so-called society was determined only by strength. What I was to find most painful, however, was the fact that the abilities of speech, reading and writing were generally ignored by the majority.

Even to this day, I sometimes wonder who had implemented such a thirst for knowledge into me, a thirst for something shunned away and almost forgotten. Had it been my parents, or someone else? This, I will never be certain of. The fact remains that I had been able to speak, read and write. I had known a lot about the world around and formulated my thoughts in a very sophisticated way.

I would never have guessed how much problems it would cause me. Being the most intelligent one around is not always as good as it may seem to be. It can make you mad, for more than one reason.

Still, the fact that they had all been, forgive me my words, dumb wasn't what had caused me to think I hadn't belonged. Far from that, actually. I could have surely lived happily ever after, if not for a small problem: everybody seemed to enjoy hating me with a passion. Why?

Because I was a freak. Because I was a Swordfish!

Surprised, aren't you? I expected that. How many of you have actually seen a living Swordfish with your own eyes? If you live where my words could have reached you, probably none. So, what is the mystery? Why am I where I am?

I cannot grant you valuable details, but rest assured that if I could, I surely would. The problem is, that the most important happenings took place too far in the past to be correctly recalled. I prefer not to talk about matters fragile enough to be warped by an accidental imaginary memory. This leaves me with little options, other than speaking only about facts.

There had been a large school of my kind, about fifty adults, allied with hundreds of other, similar schools. An effort to create a truly working Swordfish country, and also a response to the political changes in the Earthlands.

Respected and generally liked by all, the Unity of Swordfish Schools became a neutral mediator in the trades between the Spiderian Emirates and the Empire of Shassesht, also providing transport for some of the goods. Their service brought common good, because even though both the Spiders and the Snakes had a false opinion of thieves and backstabbers, most of their trade problems were caused by the fake similarity of their languages that led to countless misunderstanding.

As a species, we are pretty clever. A four-year Swordfish could already understand all the small nuisances of the languages and provide fast translations between the two, avoiding all the common mistakes.

There had been a four years long period of common storms, lasting for weeks on end. Among one of such storms a lone Swordfish, not even two years old, lost sight of its brethren and was taken captive by the merciless waters.

Defenceless, left at the mercy of endless masses of the liquid, and separated forever from anyone who would show kindness to him. That Swordfish, me obviously, was then left alone for years, with no knowledge and with scarce memories about beings similar to him.

The laws of the Grey Waters - the meaningless area of the sea that became my home, were few, but all brutal. Three rules: Kill. Eat. Survive. The emphasis on "Kill". The only violation of rights understood by all was the case of one fish eating another, when the victim was too high in the hierarchy to be legal prey for the offender. Seemingly insane, but widely accepted.

The system meant trouble for me, because it didn't predict new kinds appearing suddenly. I was outside the system

Too low to be given the rights to hunt for any food, even too low to be considered worthy prey for any self-respecting species. Swordfishes were seen as stowaway junk; smart fishes have always been outcasts. I was both.

It's the part where I am supposed to tell you the story of my sad childhood, but, yet again, my memories are far too selective to create a genuine image, one not bent by never-ending days of pain. Because there is one thing I have to admit, even though it's only my opinion: It's pretty surprising that I survived. My surroundings were a little less than friendly; not providing me with the rather discussable "honour" of being eaten didn't stop anybody from tormenting me day by day. I got beat up after every meal, the reason being, that I ate "those above me". But it doesn't even matter. I can tell you about the few flashes of images that are, somewhat, real. Or so I foolishly believe.

First thing I can remember? Fighting against a hungry group of Argyropelecus affinis, something about trespassing their territory. As if they even cared about it.

Second memory? Escaping from a horde of Diodon holocanthus I accidentally woke up, their slumber proved to be very important to them, leading to a beating.

Third memory? Plunging through swarms of Dissostichus mawsoni that tried to steal some food I haunted, and would pay for dearly later anyway. Or something similar. Dozens against one were the only acceptable odds.

Notice a pattern in them? I do not doubt, for one wise enough to read, can't be as stupid as an average Carcharias taurus. If, by any means, a Carcharias taurus is the one reading this, not only do I ask for forgiveness, but I also bow in respect, a respect well deserved by one who dared disobey the blind tradition and seek the knowledge, which has been denied many.

The pattern… Attacking, defending, retreating… It seems the fighting went on and on. I… got used to it. Funny indeed.

It is funny indeed how one can get used to about anything, pain and depression included. Granted, it's more of a bizarre sort of acceptance than getting used to it, but still, what's the difference? One way or another, after a little while you end up doing nothing against the situation you are in. It's a sign of weakness, a sign of submission and above all else, a sign of failure.

You remain passive, even if you know, that you can't keep ignoring the nagging feeling in the back of your head for much longer. Even aware of that, you try your best to ignore it all, hoping it will all just disappear and leave your life without a trace. A sign of foolish naivety, if I may call it that.

You do not want to face the "something", which you feel is so dangerous to you, so you push it away. Simple, isn't it? So where's the catch, you ask? The catch is, that you do push it away, then it bounces back at you. With more force. Try playing with a ball, but only by yourself. Bounce it off a wall again and again. It's a fun game, a good way to pass your time. It does have a flaw though. There is only one way for it to end, and that's you losing. The ball will never feel fatigue, nor will it ever offer you a draw. The game will end when you either give up, or collapse. It's pretty depressing now that we look at it.

It gets even more depressing when it's not just a meaningless game anymore. When you have something tanked up inside you and need it to remain tanked up as long as possible. It may seem I am talking to you in the manner of an old and wise man sharing his wisdom, but do not allow yourself to be fooled. While the adjective "old" fits me, though I admit it unwillingly, I wouldn't be writing this if I had been wise. Sometimes only mistakes make us learn. I was such a case. I fear some of you may be forced to go through the same things I did. That and only that motivates me to fill these pages with my words.

Looking back into the past I notice that the moment you collapse under your own pressure is not scary. It is painful and depressing, but not scary. I thought for days about it, but it took me two years to finally face the truth. The scary part is not the one when you give up, but the one that presents you with the problem. It's truly terrifying how sweet tasting a brutal trap of life can be. Let this words mark the true beginning of my story.

That special day, the waters were silent and calm. A rare moment of peacefulness was granted me as I swam slowly in the deeper parts of the sea. Four hundred meters underwater the pressure is so high that most of the "fearless" predators evade coming so deep as good as they can. The better for me. I could probably survive four hundred and fifty meters below the surface, but I doubt it would be enjoyable.

So deep within the great blue, there are secrets unknown to all but the few chosen ones that dare both wonder and wander to reveal them. Many believe that the ocean's nature is balance, that the water escapes into the air only to come back later in the form of raindrops, that for every ebb there is also a flow tide. Surprisingly, they are all wrong. The endless cycle leading to perfect balance is water's nature, but not the ocean's itself. Its true nature is collecting and amassing. Somewhere in the darkness, hidden from unwanted eyes and, that day, shown to me were the ocean's treasuries. They contained valuables of all types, taken by the ocean's greed. Everything that disappears on the surface and anywhere in the waters is sooner or later taken to such a place. Literally everything. The list should begin with thousands of corpses of unidentifiable species, stinking and half rotten, a feast for bacteria. The list would begin with corpses, and end with corpses, but far more majestic ones. Enormous galleries, medium-sized merchant ships, small vessels, they were all there. A natural museum full of rare exhibits, coming from everywhere around the world. So much history confined in so little space, an astonishing miracle preserved by tons of mud. I floated around absently, enthralled by the beauty of the sight. My mind wandered, showing me images of great travels and battles that the ships were a part of.

Somehow, I recognised most of them, reciting their special traits smoother than I did the alphabet. The monarchies of Hamsters And Hedgehogs produced ships with long spikes protruding from the sides, which detached themselves upon contact with an enemy. Once they got through a ship's armour, they rarely fell out due to a special wood carving technique, which made them stuck. Covered and filled with easily flammable substances, the spikes disabled practically all the victim's cannons and were an easy target for flaming arrows, which caused them to be one of the most feared weapons of all time.

Many nations tried to counter such a strategy by modifying the ships in various ways. That's why there were so many differences in their structures. Let's take the Duck Federations for an example. While they had been more famous for the pumps and hatches system that allowed the ships to be entered from underwater, not to mention the perfect streamline Swans always insisted on, their ingenious scientists thought up many other novelties as well. The walls of their largest galleons were cowered with a second wood layer that broke pretty easily. Useful for softening cannonball blows, but also with an additional option of filling the space between the two walls with water, preventing both from catching on fire. The only ships with no extra features were the ones belonging to the Rabbitian Empire, their plainness actually made them stand out in the crowd.

The insides proved to be even more marvellous. Old frames hung in the long corridors, their paintings foggy and unclear, washed out by the water. Splinters of once beautiful dishes lay on the floors of all chambers, but there had also been many stored in safer places, those remained in one piece. The kitchens were filled with rotten fruits and vegetables, the type of food preferred over meat since the political revolutions. The armouries were filled with almost random weaponry, the choice of weapon belonged to the soldier, causing maces to lie alongside longbows. The walls and roof of an armoury were always reinforced, so they were all in good shape. Only the gunpowder was too wet to be considered any sort of a weapon, its usefulness was probably that of mud.

What interested me most though, were the giant libraries filled with row after row of books. I was surprised that someone would read a paper book surrounded by water. At the time, I possessed little knowledge of large campaigns, so I didn't know that they were there to raise the morale of the crew. The idea did prove to be a little unreasonable though. All what was left from the books were the unsalvageable remains of sticky and clustered paper. They floated all around the rooms creating a depressing atmosphere. Them sticking to my gills didn't help any, either.

After awhile, I checked out most of the ships, and found a pleasant surprise.

The art of book making originated in Shassesht, the empire had been the only place where one could buy books for a very long time. Quite recently the idea became popular, and hundreds of libraries started appearing everywhere around the world. Original materials and information about the craft were scarce though, forcing most nations to experiment and use new and innovative designs.

This led to many differences between the books, most caused by the variety of species. The Swans had implemented a bizarre, but interesting idea. They wanted to read while swimming around, their equivalent of the pure Earthlander's pacing around in circles, but the paper's reaction to water made that very risky. Their solution was covering every page of the book with a mass produced wax like substance. From the thousands of books, only those survived.

The language used wasn't too hard. The scriveners, most of them Anatidae, implemented both land and aquatic traditions into it, so almost everyone could get the general hang of it. I didn't find it too hard at least, even with my rather limited education.

The topics varied greatly, covering distant subjects like cooking and deck constructing. I admit that ever since then I've been admiring the way Ducks turn everything into art. Their philosophy left me astounded, but also explained the prosperity of their country. If I had to summarize it, I would say that their hearts are a part of their lives, their lives are the little things they do every day, so they put their hearts into everything they do. A very productive life view and, when flavoured with a specific sense of honour, a pretty unorthodox one.

It might have been extreme boredom, or my hidden love for philosophy, but something dragged me from book to book and engrossed me in their secrets. No matter the cause though, the final effect was unquestionably enjoyable. I read tome after tome, hour after hour. You would have to feel it yourself to know what I felt. A joy, a rush of emotions, a freedom from my troubled existence, most of all, a worthwhile existence.

Like all of us, I had once been afraid of myself, disgusted by some of my thoughts and shocked by some of my actions. Also like many, I thought I had to block parts of myself, parts that were not suitable for my understanding of life. I placed dams, metaphysical structures confining all that wasn't supposed to see the light of day. I know now, that we hide and lock away only that what we are afraid of, but it does not help us with our fears. Admit that it is laughable! We stand and stare at the dam, afraid that it may fall, beaten by the enormous pressure put on it. Is there at least one reason for the fear! The dam stood for years, why can't it stand years more? You stand and stare at the dam, then suddenly it starts raining, but you don't care. The droplets can't hurt you, so you fear only the masses of water behind the dam. You are stupid. The dam stood for years and it can only be broken by an additional force, the droplets will be what'll teach you true terror.

I could never have guessed that reading books could be the beginning of my downfall, my very own rain. It was surely my own fault. I tried escaping from the fighting that filled almost every hour of my days. Immersing myself in reading was a good short-term solution, small escapades for enough food to survive couldn't be compared to what I usually went through, but proved not to be everlasting. As always, when your opponent can't beat you outright, he will come to you as your friend.

From philosophy to existence, from existence to people, from people to denizens, from denizens to nations, from nations to countries, from countries to politics and finally from politics to warfare. The long way from carelessness to doom.

Swords making, war tactics and fencing immediately became my main interests. Practicing new moves, devising new strategies or learning about conflicts worldwide. I could do any of these for hours without a break, you could say they were my life for those few blissful months. I doubt I've ever really noticed what I was studying, what took day after day of my lifetime. Who knows how would things turn out if I did though, if I didn't invest so much time into self-perfection on the field I once despised.

I admit that it was one of the most enjoyable times in my life – no worries, just all around fun. It didn't even make me question my own sanity, didn't last long either.

I trained and practised for a very long time, so long in fact, that I could hardly remember my previous "home". Then, I left the place where I picked up so much knowledge. I knew that I've learned all there was to learn, it was time for me to pass on the light, to create something of my own and find a purpose that could be fulfilled, one that would make my journey complete.

So much had changed where I once lived, yet so much remained the same. I tried to calculate how much time had passed, but my efforts were in vain. I couldn't even say how old I was. Late seven? Probably early eight, that would at least explain why I've already turned so cranky now. Regardless, time passed and changed things, I soon learned that some of them would never be the same again.

Above all else, I changed the most. I found I could not return to my old life. I could not hide when someone passed, I could not swim around others when there was no reason to other than my old fear. I could not ignore my pride, once hidden, but now pulsating strongly and ready to fight for its rights. I felt and was confident, and those that once would have bullied me now swam hastily away, afraid. I was unimaginably superior to each and every one of them, I knew it and they knew it. Who did they fear, the piece of junk too low to be affected by their rights? The piece of junk they had tormented for so many years? The very same one?

A Shark swam up to me, his movement full of anger and his jaws opened menacingly. He was probably mad his lunch had hidden somewhere, not even because of him. Too bad really, if his anger was a fireplace, my was a blazing inferno, stacked up day after day and blow after blow until then, until I reached the breaking point. I didn't socialise enough to ask him how he wanted to die.

With the way he was attacking, I could have wounded him until he bled to death, looking at his horror struck expression all the time. He wasn't worth the time nor the effort to do so, though. I punctured his head before he had the chance to realise what he got himself into and what killed him. The currents were nervous, they took the blood oozing from the hole in his head and spread it everywhere, telling everyone the news faster than any voice could. I waited, there was no need to rush, the inevitable was awaiting and I had no problems with facing it. Alea iacta est.

All the other Sharks soon appeared on the spot. I always wished to know what they felt that very moment. Anger, shock, defiance, hatred and the glimmer of surprise, of panic, so evident, so hard to hide. Born by the possibility that the hunter may become the prey. They came trying to protect far more than just food or territory, they came to protect their dignity, their only means of survival. I really couldn't have cared less.

The three behind me attacked first. I knew they would. I knew which of them would strike if I turned, I knew who was stronger and who more agile. I knew everything I could need just by seeing them, how they acted, how they looked, how they reeked of fear. My long studies paid off to a degree I never could have imagined.

I made a full flip and the trio missed me completely. A single slashing gesture was enough to cut open the last one's fin. A mako shark moved quickly somewhere from my side. He thought I was distracted. I dodged to the left and his jaws didn't even come close to hitting their target. I swished my tail crushing both of his eyes with the power of the impact. More of them charged and I ducked down. A cautious one was keeping away from the fight. Cautiousness must be used well to be of any use, though. He never really got the chance to dodge my charge and I almost went right through him. Some idiot nearly bit my tail from behind. In battle, there is "yes", or "no". Nearly doesn't count. Another slash and the guy's blood turned the water around even more crimson than it was before. Another attack came, it was supposed to be coordinated. I changed the course quickly and the fools crashed right into each other. A silent crack could be heard as one of them was proven not to have a skull strong enough to survive such an impact. Three more had to die before they understood that their surprise attacks wouldn't do much.

Did they really believe in surprise? I could hear the water whispering to me, telling me everything that happened all around whenever it was just barely moved. Couldn't they hear that voice, the one which made all blows lethal, which gave the power to annihilate any opposition, the herald of death. And if they couldn't, then why?

As dead bodies floated to the bottom of the sea I smiled grimly. Maybe they were fighting for what they considered important, but I was playing a game. An evil, vile game. That moment, when the one with the cut fin lost consciousness and followed his dead friends because of blood loss, I knew I had already won. At first only one, than another, and in the end all of them fled, no longer thinking clearly enough to be able to fear.

The stench of death was persistent and overwhelming. Telling the story of what happened better than any words or images could. I looked around with a sick kind of satisfaction, the one you feel after sharing a dirty joke with your friends. If you have any alive, that is.

I smiled, but even as I did so I knew that the true weight of the event was waiting to come down and crush me. To wipe any pathetic smile from my bloodied face. If I have ever had true dams of self-control, yes, those dams I wasted your time talking about before, I could see them crumble and fall.

One by one.


	2. Action

AN: In chapter one, I said the following chapters would come "shortly after". That was four years ago.

The whole story was ready back then, actually. I vaguely remember my reasons for not posting this right then, but don't consider them important now. So, here you go. I upload everything as it was written half a decade ago, so it should be obvious I would write it differently now. But this look into the past has its merits, too...

* * *

Part 2: Action

There was a war. There was a Swordfish. There was emptiness. And besides, there was nothing goddamn more. Nothing.

There was a war, a petty one. Foolish bickering, whole nations drawn into a stupid competition of overgrown egos. A silly theft, two kids given to much power beating each other up, and voila. A war, though a petty one, but a war. Then, the Islands fell, both. Both. The destruction was humongous, as was the pain of those who took part in the bout. However, the war was still petty.

What was the war for people, who suffered for their homeland? What was the war for those, who died protecting what they found important? What was the war for Tak Kariat, who died not for his own Crow ground, but for the homeland of a few stupid Hogs? For someone who said that leaving a place which was about to die was easy, even too easy to be the right path? What was the war for a good-willed foreigner, like Ssarfet Ssoliessier? For a Snake who thought war could bring a good change, not only causalities? What was the war for Monir Klastor, a Fox strategist who found himself visiting a bad place at a bad time? For a person who did not want nor deserve to die, but in his death showed more courage than all others around him? What was the war they fought compared to the war fought by the two aforementioned "leaders"? Tonie Hebrav II, a Hog, and Dilter Falta, an Ape. Those two didn't fight a war, really. What was it for them? A game?

Regardless, there is a question I still evade. A coward once again.

What was the war for a Swordfish unconcerned by either side's victory, or loss? Namely, what was the war for me? Lies aside, adjectives aside, it was an excuse. A nearly ingenious veil sewed by an idiot. Excuse to fight and kill in the name of nonexistent beliefs. Veil to hide the true motives, or maybe the lack thereof. If I had done it for fame, I would be damned, but in a vain way, justified. How different would it be if I did it for riches, position, whatever else? I could have done it for any of the above reasons, I should have, even if only to lie myself, as I have always done. I didn't, that mistake demanded a punishment most severe. I had a right to enter the conflict, but I had a duty to have one valid reason to do so. When those who die by your will ask you "why?", they want to know if their death was needed, if there was not a chance for them to survive. Their questions don't care about you, they don't ask what is your motive, why you did what you did. That's the way it is supposed to be, but wasn't for me, wasn't for the mind receiving pleas and cries. Their questions were tears, final flickers of a long gone flame, yet they were also knives, sharp and long, coated with a sweet poison. Each and every one of them asked me "why?", even when they didn't utter one word, even when I only swam by their already dead corpses. They questioned and doubted, and in their death and defeat, they all were victorious. The veil was made of glass, one mercilessly magnifying everything behind it.

I would not last until the end of the war. For many the matter of "if", for me only of "when". When I would break down, forgivingly killed by others, or attempting to end my life myself. Another sign of weakness, a very bad one. If you think about taking your own life, you are weak. If you can only attempt to do it, you are even weaker. All those fallen, they were great men. Did they realize, that they were closer to a true victory than I could ever be?

I wouldn't need to get through the whole thing though. The time that I would become redundant was destined to come long before the final bout of the war. The last water station of tactical importance, Shrapnel Bay, was reached by the war zone. It wasn't going to fall easily, either. Its location allowed it to sustain all of the nearby sea barriers, making its fall one of the deciding factors concerning the transport of equipment and forces. One last mission, that maybe, just maybe, was of great importance, if anything was at all.

The battle plan was easy. Each defence station was protected by a low class battalion and some higher class unit. I was supposed to take care of the second part. The true reason for the battle was on land, though. An explosives team would set charges, using the diversion we would cause. With enough luck, barrier alpha could be overcome in only a few minutes, and the water torrent would weaken or destroy all the other barriers. It looked great in theory, but was unlikely to run too smooth in reality. At this point in time, though, I didn't have to pay such predictions any attention.

The waters were murky, nearly swamp-like. It wasn't that bad a little deeper, where I was headed, but most others would fight right near the surface. I guess you can't evade eating at least some shit in your life.

Lowering my altitude, I entered a vast complex of caves, almost all of them dark and unwelcoming, but some filled with light reflected off the crystals embedded within the walls. A beautiful sight for those allowed to admire it. The whole area was infested with algae, but in rather bearable proportions. Some underwater currents coursed around the chambers, crossing with one another and sometimes making it hard to swim forward at all. A climatic scenery for a clash of two great fighters. Whatever.

The liquids around went mad. Their pressure rapidly shifting, growing then disappearing. An announcement of the appearance of my foes. Or it could just be a random earthquake. That's not even funny. Wars tend to mess up everything, nature included. Earthquakes were often the least damaging of what a wandering army caused. Water divisions were far more "harmless" than their Earthland counterparts, though. To block a current in such a cave, more than a hundred soldiers would be needed. Of course, I had no reason to believe there were less of them coming. Whispers were travelling, silent conversations leading to only one conclusion: the swordfish rogue became too notorious, and is to be eliminated, even at costs exceeding his value. Such conclusions were a flattery to some of the poor fools trying to attract attention to themselves, but an insult to me. I could value my life lowly, but would not accept the term "eliminate" when it was used in reference to my person. I should have had enough luck to be on the losing side.

Another change in the current, this time even more intense, the disturbance was coming closer. I could begin to count the few meters between us. The smaller the distance, the easier the distinction of every movement in water becomes. The water always told me how many and who exactly was coming. I listened patiently, but ominously could not understand even one of its words that day. As if it knew what was about to happen, as if… and then, it begun.

The pressure differences became more subtle, creating myriads of tiny waves you interpret as sounds. From them all, only one was peculiar. The sound of spikes scratching against the walls, and tearing them apart. I stood still and concentrated, always waiting, and finally he appeared in my eyesight. I was in for a big surprise.

– What the heck are you? – I asked bewildered. I could never refrain myself from talking instead of fighting, it quieted down bothersome thoughts.

– If your question refers to my lineage, I feel bound to inform you that I'm an offspring of a Chiton Striatus and an Acanthopleura Granulata, although an untypical example of such. Family name Barboss, Fernard. – He replied immediately, with a kind sincerity in his voice.

In the given circumstances, his speech couldn't have been more outrageous. He gave so much detail just to disturb me before the fight. It wasn't needed, though. His appearance, which he described only as "untypical", was shocking enough. Molluscs, the Polyplacophora, have an armour on their backs, they are almost completely hidden by it, so you don't see much of them. In the aspect of anatomy, Barboss did not resemble his family at all. He had two shells, one connected with the upper, and one with the lower part of his body. They were both a greenish-black, a trait he received from both of his parents. Sharp spikes of different length protruded from the shells at many angles. What connected the shells was a long and thin, slime-like body with a pinkish tinge to it. Barboss's eyes and mouth were in the middle of it. As his spikes bore into the ground below and he stretched out, I was also forced to realise one more thing, he took up the whole cavern and was simply huge. Even one of his eyes was the size of my head, if not bigger.

I quickly evaluated the advantages and disadvantages of the situation. It could appear to be a bad one, but it wasn't so. Getting impaled on one of the spikes meant instant death, I doubted it would happen though. I could tell that my opponent used the muscles responsible for stretching and narrowing as the only means of putting his giant body into motion. That meant he couldn't spin around or move forward and backwards. Unprotected by its shell, a Mollusc's body is immeasurably vulnerable, making it an easy prey for experienced combatants. All in all, the guy would die sooner than I would.

That left only one problem. Few combatants are desperate or stupid enough to willingly approach a sure death, but many do so, unaware of the reality behind a given situation. One of the few things every true warrior fears – the fog of war. No experience in fighting mutated molluscs was a severe undoing, one I never would have bothered myself with any other day. That being important? What are the odds anyway?

Forcing your opponent to take the initiative in undesirable circumstances is a skill everyone possesses and few appreciate. It's the dishonourable skill of provocation. Speech may be a most lethal weapon.

- With all the respect I had been able to muster for opponents of your proportions – Here I paused for a second, building up the tension and making sure he was listening intently – I cannot prevent myself from advising a change of name, Mr. Graceful would suit you pretty nicely, I suppose. – With just a hint of sarcasm in my voice, and a few glances at the holes made by his spikes, I found the message obvious enough to anyone. He didn't like it one bit, mind you.

- You primitive shrimp! – He yelled – I should not have expected courtesy from something as primitive as an undomesticated Swordfish. You have chosen your destiny fool!

So he was angered. Big deal. In fact, I was about ten times as furious as he was. Pesky racists were one of the people that didn't survive long when I was around to help it. Especially those meddling with me. The stupid conversation achieved its goal, he was ready to enter combat at once. It also settled, that I would live long enough to bare witness to his slow demise. Very slow demise.

He inhaled like a mad beast. I paid attention not to let him know just how much it took me not to move with all the water going haywire around. The cavern was filled with obnoxious, slurping sounds. The scent of the algae became mixed with something else, something rotten, akin to death

And then he squished himself again. He couldn't squish his eyes so there was a tiny opening still left, but it wasn't worth attacking. If he moved a little, it would be suicide. So I waited for something to happen. Somehow everything became bleaker, the colours fading, as if it was getting dark. I was nagged by a stupid impression that the two connected shells became more intimidating with each passing second. Tension and patience are possible ways of winning a war too. But after that uneventful awaiting, something did happen. A loud cracking noise raced through the water, followed by another and another. I risked a glance at the ceiling and walls of the cavern, but they were quite alright. I returned my gaze to my opponent. I found out that the impression was, in fact, true. Barboss grew nearly twice his enormous size, you just couldn't notice it if you were watching him intently. What you could notice, however, was the debris falling out from his shells at amazing rates. The more he grew, the more cracks appeared on his shell, and the more of it fell off. Soon, he was shrinking faster than growing and returned to his original size. It was all a big nonsense. I could hardly believe such a stunt would be all for nothing. And it proved not to be.

Something small shot upwards from the bottom of the cave. I swerved to the side. A sphere passed me. Small spikes protruding from it glistened in the dim light. It didn't stop and crashed into the ceiling. I stared after it. And then I could feel more of something moving below me. It was unimaginable. Tens of black and green spheres were floating in the water. Barboss made himself a small army of miniature clones. Without warning, they all moved. I swam forward as fast as I could. Crashes came from behind me. More spheres whizzed past me. I forced myself to turn left. Something I couldn't see scratched my side. I moved on still. I was past all of it abruptly. I turned around and saw the spheres colliding with each other, the walls and whatever else was in their path. On the bottom, more were constantly raising. The damned Mollusc sat there smiling. Shooting careless glances. Damn mollusc. Surprise does not guarantee victory, unless it's properly abused.

I swam backwards and avoided more mindless shells. The small wounds I sustained were all minor and would not affect my abilities. I took a deep breath and concentrated. Exploiting the power of gravity gave additional power to any downward strike. That allowed truly pulverizing dive bombs to be executed during underwater fights. Very painful. I was prepared. My muscles were tense. And then, my eyes met his. He was still smiling. I stopped myself. The look in his eyes was nearly challenging. As if he knew what I was going to do. A funny quote came to my mind. "If your enemy already knows what you are going to do, why do it?". Funny quotes were all that reading hundreds of books gave me. And then, just like that, my opponent chuckled. Although nothing was funny at all. Even more of the stupid shells came from all directions and formed a thick wall between us. Of course, if those things could be used to attack, they could also defend.

The idea was genuinely brilliant. At top speed, one could break right through such a barrier, but was left with little to no momentum at all. And it was very unpractical, since you ended heavily wounded, as much or more so than the opponent you tried so much to hurt. Losing the initiative was the smallest of the problems that occurred. As long as it was unexpected, it was a great defence. But now that I knew about it, it could as well backfire. The situation finally became serious. The first one to make a mistake would have to suffer consequences.

Barboss was probably proud of how smart he was. His vanity bought me a moment of peace. I began to evaluate the strategic importance of the battlefield. It appeared to be quite uninfluential, with no passer-bys nor potential weapons in sight. The dead algae would probably crumble when touched. The cavern wasn't small enough for it to be good for Barboss, but it wasn't big enough to help me, either. I could use the leftovers of his former shell against him, but I doubted he would just stand and watch as I collected them. That left me with only one option, one I didn't honestly like.

Some shells were floating around, but the ones that collided with something too hard were hovering aimlessly in place. I hadn't had much experience with molluscs, but I've met shelled creatures before. It was a long shot, but if the miniatures were similar enough to the original, I could pull off something quite impressive. It was worth a try.

I raced to the nearest shell, accumulating as much speed as possible. I pierced right through it. My first assumption was correct. In pain, all creatures hide in their armours as good as they can. It was an automatic reaction, it occurred despite the clone's inability to feel or think. That worked in my favour. I shot a glance at Barboss and was assured that he hadn't yet comprehended what I was doing. I distanced myself from the corpse, and then hit it with my tailfin as strong as I could. The concomitant pain was bearable, and necessary. The fin started bleeding, but some time would pass before it became a serious problem. I had more important matters to attend to.

I plunged downward. The barrier loomed ahead of me, Barboss's giant eyes behind it. His stare was blank, he hadn't yet understood anything. There was hope, then. Something bounced off the nearest wall, and then passed me, missing my sword by a few inches. The shell I hit earlier. It missed me. It hit the barrier right in the centre. All formations were broken. Chaos ensued. In battle, chaos is deadly. I hit him before he understood what had happened. I ricocheted away to see him enclose himself within his shell. Too late to protect himself from my blow. Too late to crush me, for he would easily. And to soon to move away from his barrier. I heard the shells that once protected him meet their untimely end smashed, impaling him with hundreds of spikes. That, and the following silence.

Any other fight would have ended by then and I would have swum away. But, somehow, I knew that Barboss wasn't done for yet. Not more than a minute could have passed when his shell opened and he was once again staring at me with those unsettling eyes of his. Red, swollen and in pain. And smiling, with great satisfaction

I couldn't help but smile myself.


	3. Impression

Part 3: Impression

He tried his best to look serious, or at least a little bit dignified, a great feat for someone of his size and in his condition. Nevertheless, the effort was respectable. Just like that, our conversation began anew.

- It was both unthinkable and inconsiderate of me to underestimate you, my genuine apologies, Sir Fish? – It was really a carefully camouflaged request to be provided with a proper name, quoted almost exactly from "The code of war", a book written by the representative secretaries during the Southern Earthland Wars. I've stumbled upon many copies of it, as it was one of the most commonly used books when referring to honour, pride and battle, especially amongst the Ducks, since they had a lot to say during the creation of the original. If you may excuse my digression, however, I would have to note that while the content of the volume is certainly worth following, the story of its creation was somewhat shady. Half of the scriveners worked as double agents for whoever paid them enough. All the advice in the work is also horribly practical. Asking for a name before a duel was meant to help with tombstones and body identification, which became a problem during the later parts of the war.

Crude, but effective. I responded on the same basis.

- You, who took up my challenge and asked for my name in guidance of honour and tradition, may call me Klaminat Fiamin, like I was called by those who were close to me, as a sign of the undying and everlasting respect one holds for his worthy opposition even in the direst of times.

He was content with such an answer. He grinned wider. It gave me the impression that he provoked the speech only to test my knowledge. It occurred to me just how much we've had underestimated each other. His ignorance earned me a pot shot, but he had been able to brush it off. He was still well and standing, even more so, he was only beginning to make the fight official. He had a few more tricks in store, that was for sure.

He pulled his spikes out from the mud and took a second to stabilize myself. The turmoil caused by his movements didn't make me laugh anymore. Only Barboss's facial expressions spooked me out more and more, although I took into account that he didn't really have any other means of conveying his emotions. He started turning around and spoke.

- With all the necessary pleasantries aside, I would find it most reasonable to continue our little bout. Shall we?

And then he pushed himself over the edge and swam deeper into the complex of caverns.

- I would be more than glad to comply.

I followed him down, preparing myself to use my full potential. There wouldn't be much kidding. I heard him crash-landing below, no more graceful than before. When I got to the level he was on, he was waiting, with that broad smile of his still plastered on his face. However, it would be rude to remark on that, wouldn't it?

- Your face reminds me of some of the psychos I knew before this whole war started. I must apologize, but that is not a compliment. – I smirked satisfied. He did too, but you have probably already predicted that.

- It seems, Sir Klaminat, that you have passed the border of common decency, I am forced to remind you your, somewhat lacking, manners. By any means possible.

He inhaled again. If whatever it was could be called inhaling. This deep, there was little plant life, but still enough to produce an irritating stench. The slurping sounds repeated themselves, as did the randomisation of all the currents. Barboss could as well be sucking the life away from the place, although I couldn't come up with a plausible mechanic for such a process. Whatever he was doing, it was over quickly. His shell didn't even inflate before it erupted with debris flying and forming small hills on the floor. The whole process couldn't have lasted a whole minute. Barboss wasn't fooling around, he knew I wouldn't allow him to handle things slowly and carefully, so his actions were swift, but not in the least hasty. Once again, I couldn't afford to take the initiative, so I decided to repeat one more thing.

- As an overall tendency, those, who try to catch me off guard twice with the same trick, usually don't live long enough to appreciate the, rather disappointing, effects of their efforts. I have great fight that you do not wish nor intend to join them. – While my voice sounded a little bit less menacing than I wanted it to, the satisfying, if not a little forced, malice was there. Just not to make it too casual.

Frowning would surely hurt him, or something, so he didn't.

- Like the old tome "Basics of negotiations and other long-term conflicts", with which you have, no doubt about it, already met, I too believe that, correct me if I am mistaken, "The ideas, facts, abilities and any other advantages of a subject in a confrontation are like cards, depending on the order the opponents play them, different outcomes occur, but never is a card unbeatable nor can it ever hit the table twice". – He replied calmly. The small psychological advantage was his, for some reason I couldn't pinpoint. He started anyway.

Small shapes emerged from the rubble, and indeed they weren't small Barbosses, they weren't even spherical. They resembled cones, or some rabid missiles, all coming right after me, as expected indeed.

One thing was doubtless. They were quick. I swerved madly and avoided contact. Barboss was wide open. No crashing sounds came this time. The projectiles went into wide arcs and came back at me. One collided with my back. Horrible pain pushed me forward. I barely avoided a dozen more hits. I tried to regain my composure. Barboss was still there. Not alone anymore. More small molluscs swam around, once again forming a barrier. He interpreted the cards thing far more differently than I did. That couldn't be helped. The killer bombs had already looped the loop and were ready for another try. I wasn't quite yet. Two of them collided. Nothing much was left. The force of the impact was astonishing. And sickening. They came back at me. I spun the left. One mused the wound on my tailfin. They were faster than before. Another two rammed into Barboss's armour. Cut in halves by his spikes. He barely blinked. I understood. He didn't control them. There was a mad way out of this. Another arc and another round. I focused on the middle one. They were near. I jerked forward. The hit made me numb. The pressure too enormous not to be a dream. The two pieces of the cone flashed before my eyes. And then were gone. A rude awakening from a nightmare. I couldn't sustain that twice. There was no slow-motion. No time to think. I plunged downward. The water vibrated furiously. They were gaining on me. I headed for Barboss. Prominent suicidal tendencies. If I got a big one, he would too. The barrier was seconds away. I tried stopping, with no success. The futile resistance made me perform clumsy flips. I flipped, the missiles caught up. Some missed. Some connected. None hit directly. All carried onward in front of me. I couldn't ask for more. I got more bleeding cuts than I could imagine and I still couldn't be happier. That card would make everything go awry.

The projectiles met with the barrier. I went right through it all. Clones flew by, bouncing off each other. Shrapnel from the missiles was everywhere. I closed my eyes not to get them punctured. I hit Barboss head-on, blindly or not. Powerfully, but not as cleanly as before. He lost his balance. His upper shell swayed from the impact , swinging back and forth. I ducked as he tore right through the wall behind me. Splinters cut into my former wounds. I wouldn't notice it until later due to the adrenaline. The cavern shook as it took blow after blow with each crazy swing from the giant Mollusc. Parts of the walls were ripped off then destroyed by the still restless shells and missiles. Everything swirled in a mad dance of destruction. Each second brought more dirt and debris into the fray. I pushed a pebble out of my way. A rock hit me in the back of my head. My vision blurred. There wasn't much to see anyway.

I collided with the floor. I didn't know why. Things fell around me and stopped moving. Everything got calm. How? I tried moving, but it was too painful. And then I felt it. The somehow enormous water pressure. It didn't feel good. I opened my eyes. They couldn't decide between being all blurry, or deadly precise. Barboss was near, dislocated from the mud and spinning anxiously in place. He was staring at something above him. I followed his gaze to the cracked ceiling and, before realisation could strike, tones of rocks and ground fell on our heads.

There was no dodging to talk about. Not even self-induced movement. There was only the will to survive. The merciless boulders were too happy to torment and kill. There was nothing but stones and mud, nothing beyond pain and fear of suffocation. I heard silence. I saw darkness. I felt coldness. Was I alive…?

The pain returned. Dulled, but getting stronger and stronger. A joyful sensation that ensured me I would still have to wait with my last goodbyes, at least for a short while. I moved my fins around. Every wound reminded about itself, but it appeared I would be able to move. I could hardly breath, however. My eyelids raised with much protest. It took me a moment to get used to the lack of light. Faint outlines of the rocks pinning me down formed before my eyes. A wave of nausea washed over me. My body needed rest. It wouldn't get it yet. Collapsing there wouldn't be wise. I got out from under the stones with a little bit of wriggling, it hurt a lot. I floated in place, moving proved to be unpleasant. The two caves were now interconnected, the rubble below the only proof of their former separation.

To my astonishment, among that destruction stood Barboss. Still breathing, but not smiling at all. He didn't have a reason to be in the mood for grinning. His upper shell was devoid of spikes and looked like a cracked egg. If he had any nerves under the armour, it had to be beyond painful. He seemed surprised when he noticed me alive. Or he could have just grimaced because some more bits fell off his shell. With their protection broken, Molluscs become very fragile.

- As some book, which, you surely understand, I cannot exactly recall in my current state, said: "The more wounds and fatigue one has to endure, the weaker he becomes. But the weaker he becomes, the more decisive his actions become." It would appear such a statement could be applied to our current situation.

- "How I bested the beasts of the sea"? – The title came to my mind automatically, but I couldn't remember one line of the piece – Wasn't that written by some drunk, attention hungry captain who killed himself when he slipped and fell on his head? – He seemed to contemplate that, but he could as well only be mocking me.

- That may be the case. However, I am forced to notice that, at this point, I am hardly able to bother with such small things. – We both chuckled at that. – I am, if that isn't obvious, quite curious just how you refused to die in the little, shall I say, party we had there.

- In most other circumstances, I would gladly tell you. But I think I would prefer not to, for some reason.

He, most probably subconsciously, stretched himself to intimidate me. Such things actually rarely worked. When the guy before you had been trying to kill you for some time, you already know about it, so you don't need a reminder. Intimidation often proved purposeless. He tried a far more direct approach.

With a mighty stretch and squish, he moved upwards. His bottom shell was more intact than the upper one. As he rose above, the spikes in it seemed to retract. Suddenly, some of them shot out from the armour and flew in his direction. But his aim was worse than you could ever imagine. I didn't move from the spot and nothing reached me. If he wanted to play rough, I would teach him. An immediate counter strike was in order, after all. I swam behind him, less agile than usual, stiff because of the pain. I plunged forward and stabbed him. With pathetic result. The hit wasn't stronger than that of a new born bee. Any other time I would have been more embarrassed than you can imagine.

It seemed we were both equally disturbed by the low level of our performance. Most would already be dead, but that knowledge did little to wash away the shame. The following silence would seem bizarre to any onlooker, but it didn't for us. We could attack, and get even more humiliated by the ineffectiveness of such an action. Pride is a double edged sword.

Thankfully, a much needed distraction soon presented itself. The silence was cut off by a loud, but distant, rumbling. We both understood what that meant. The surface forces reached the dam and took over from there. For all intents and purposes, our job here was over.

- I find it to be a situation of utmost peculiarity. However, altogether expected. It appears we are left with matters of great importance. – He rattled on, seemingly untouched by the development of the situation. – In order to reach a satisfying conclusion, I have yet to but ask you a question. Are you indeed loyal to the cause followed by Hebrav II?

I could not fathom what exactly he wanted. He did prove himself to be manipulative, so it could be a trick.

- If you haven't noticed, I'm here. After fighting for quite some time, too. Questioning my loyalty is pointless. I thought you would be able to notice that, at least.

He looked taken aback for awhile, but, surely enough, it wasn't enough for him to stop talking.

- Obviously, I am not questioning your loyalty to whomever you pledged alliance to, as you should have immediately understood. I daresay neither one of us has to bear blemishes of honour which could pose as a justification of such aspersions. However, I am forced to bring to your attention, that you might have misunderstood both my words and intentions. Therefore I will allow myself to quote a part of my previous words. Are you loyal to the cause?

- There is more than the cause, for there has to be. I fight along and against soldiers, but not the leaders. This can be a war, between people, but it can't, between false ideologies, illusions hungry for innocent lives. There must be more beyond a cause, when there is no cause at all. So much more… Some fight. Some believe. Yes, and They do have more.

- Regardless, if my assumption is correct, this war can be considered over, as far as both our persons are concerned. This is the last underwater place of any strategic importance and I may but doubt that any counter strikes are to come anytime soon. Thus our services became largely redundant just this moment. Am I correct, dear friend?

- Considering the current situation, I don't think there'll be any further need for our help, there are no water passages to fight for anyway. Your assumption seems to be correct.

- I am therefore inclined to present to you a proposition. If this idea finds your acceptance, I would like to declare a ceasefire treaty, lasting for about the remainder of the current hour. After that, we can feel free to return to our small bout.

- But, why? – I didn't seem to get it.

- Why the break? Well, I was inclined to notice that we are not up to the standard we would like to represent. In such a light, a short break would enable us…

- No, not the break! The fight! If the war is over, why fight?

- I have yet to express my views on this matter? Such a negligence on my behalf, what a shame! If you will allow me to recompense, it is, truthfully, all quite simple. While it could appear that maintaining our military interaction in spite of the obvious changes in the situation is, how shall I say, groundless, it would be desirable if you could understand the changing nature of the matter, more specifically the fact, that we no longer represent corresponding sides, and so the battle belongs to us and us alone.

- So the pointlessness of fighting is its justification? You are actually willing to battle with nothing to battle for?

- The question "What for" is indeed one that does not fully appeal to me. I very much prefer "Because of what", if that is not a problem.

- Because of what, then?

- But isn't that elementary? Because we can! – He exclaimed – It appears to me that you have spent much time perfecting your considerable skills, unless your experienced behaviour and extensive knowledge are both, for some reason, misleading, which I doubt they are. Regardless of circumstances, I find it to be a great loss if one is unable to abuse his abilities to their full extent, as they

undoubtedly deserve to.

I felt only one thing: utter exasperation. His reason was valid, of course, but easily not serious, not complicated, enough to be of any importance to the matter at hand. It was a ridiculous situation, and I loathed it. Maybe somewhere beyond the exasperation there was a tiny bit of fear; I feared for I couldn't tell if what he said had a predefined purpose.

- Barboss, you are oblivious, but are you oblivious on purpose, or not? – Even I wasn't sure if it was a declaration, question, or challenge – The world unfolds before us many a path, but never the ones that we truly desire. There is a reason for what I am, for what I have become. I am Klaminat Fiamin, a being who swam alongside the roads of malice and vengeance and past misery into the fields blossoming with the foul stench of death and decay. I am the child of my fate. A child that denies its destiny and defies its purpose. Nothing will come to harm from my fins for its sole existence, nothing.

Barboss was unfazed, his expression did not falter.

- I, understandably, know little about your, surely most fascinating, past, but I am truly convinced that you have deeply enjoyed the, at least somewhat decent, challenge our fight brought.

- Enjoyment is an emotion, its validity depends on its source. You cannot master yourself without mastering your emotions. You must define them; they mustn't define you.

- I am coming to the dire conclusion that you, most unfortunately, are trying to change something you may not, or so I suppose, understand. The world wants us to be its tools, but it needs other tools to form us. It is what I would, frankly, call an irony, that we may use them as well. In your struggle you have forgotten the necessity and inevitability of things. We may, in a manner of speaking, turn around and stare at the, most terrifying, grief we have caused, but the right question is, if we would have done it all without the knowledge or ability to do it so effectively. Would we cause pain to survive? Would we kill to eat? Inevitability or death. Yet death does not change the world, it only replaces the marionettes that do the master's bidding. What is, if I may ask such questions, honour, and what is delusion and passiveness? Being physically alive means being manipulated by life, but play the game, comprehend the rules, and you will find yourself the puppeteer.

And then, there was silence. No tension, for truth does not bring tension, only contemplation. At that moment, I could believe his words, or not. I could turn my life either way I wished. At that moment, I could. And it was enough.

- I will take your words into consideration for the future, thank you. At this moment, however, I see no reason to fight you. Excuse me. After all, what for?

I left the question without an answer. A question that did not fully appeal to him. Why? He was outspoken and surprisingly witty. Was he really not ready to answer it…

- Fort the art of it

… or had it been me who hadn't been ready to hear the answer?

Art, a lie I used to immerse myself in the world of written word, leaving everything else behind. A lie that filled me with hostility towards the world.

Possibly the truth. The truth that didn't change me much, but changed the way I saw the world, giving me another perspective. A chance for a better life.

Why have I never seen the possibility?

- How can I tell the difference between the art and purposeless killing?

Was I too quick to judge? Have I reached a conclusion too early and set it in stone?

- In this case, my friend, I predict no, how you said, "killing" at all, making it, most easily, distinguishable.

Haven't I turned into a killer? Beyond that single incident years ago, was I ever fuelled by anger and cruelty?

- But isn't it still purposeless?

Was I… wrong?

- I consider enjoying yourself, which would be our goal, a great purpose, not to mention the, very convenient, relieving of stress.

I was.

- What do you propose we do for the hour, then?

- Well, dear friend – he said with his grin returning – it seems largely coincidental, but we both enjoy to read a, high quality, of course, book from time to time. I find it to be the perfect topic of a discussion too…


	4. Words

Part4: Words

Funny indeed.

It is funny indeed how my life changed because of two simple happenings, how ridiculously it changed. It is funny indeed how our beliefs may be shattered; above all it is funny indeed how they can be refined.

Every story needs a beginning, every story deserves an ending.

The war I met Barboss in lasted for another two decades, until the total exhaustion of both sides and the overthrowing of both their governments. The lands were later claimed by the Canines with little to no protest from the other nations, who saw no value in the tarnished lands, nor from the original citizens, who welcomed the new order and manpower.

Barboss travelled across the seas, searching for another like him. Although we stayed good friends and met plenty of times throughout the years, I have yet to hear about him succeeding in this goal.

I searched for the members of my family still alive and found several of them, although none were my close relatives. I learned that while smaller and less organized, some underwater civilizations were not inferior to those on land. I've crafted many a friendship, even with numerous Sharks, who cured me of my racist tendencies.

I was a part of a few more wars, all of them I believed necessary, all of them proved to be short. I was wounded several times, but never seriously. I ultimately gathered a little bit of fame, but not only from my adventures on the battlefield.

With my unabated love for literature, I was inclined to write an impressive amount of books; some of them regarded warfare, some my biography, one you are reading right now.

I noticed that most authors wrote large volumes, addressing the reader and telling him what to do to make his life better. I couldn't bring myself to do it like that.

I wrote what I did with my life. I wrote what consequences my actions had. The good and the bad. I told my readers what I wouldn't do if I could live my life once more. Above all else, I wrote that every one of us has a choice at every one point in his life. I wrote that I didn't regret my final choices and that I was happy. That was all that I wrote.

I reminiscence sometimes. I recall the old times with glee and with fear.

How will you remember your life?

Or rather, how will you live it?

**Last of Dams**

**END**

* * *

_Words... are just words. Impressions are eternal._


End file.
